(This little girl of eleven hated Maths, like many of her age. The rules the teacher laid down felt very rigid to her. Her dismal performance in the quarterly exams, especially in Mathematics, made the teacher very angry. But for reasons best known to the girl, or probably not known to the girl, she tore her answer sheets bit by bit right in the classroom while the teacher was distributing the papers of the entire class. She was obviously caught by the teacher, and when asked what happened to your answer sheet, she innocently replied, ” The squirrels from the tree took it. NOW READ ON….)
As per school rules, teachers were strictly not allowed to beat a student. My Mathematics teacher almost raised her hand at me for being an imprudent student, but she pulled it back. I felt sorry for her, and a smile played on my lips as I imagined my mother in her place, who by now must have given me a tight slap and a volley of curses. Her favourite lines were, “You are never going to become the engineer I dreamt of being myself once?”
Now, was it my mistake that Grandpa could not afford to educate his daughter because of financial crunches? Mom claimed she was a very good Mathematics student, and I believe her because she helped me solve the never-ending problems once we started the new grade in middle school. She is indeed smart for tackling the problem of finding the ages of seven members in a family, given no one’s age but some weird data connecting all their ages. When I tried to solve it, the son’s age came out to be twenty years more than the father’s age, so I quietly passed the issue to my father first. His expression was blander than mine.
“Such a simple problem, and you can’t solve it? How will you ever become an engineer?” My mother rolled her eyes.
“I don’t want to become an engineer; I want to write essays and poetry.”
I don’t know why I had to cross bows with her; she began wailing. “Both my kids are utterly useless. The elder one wants to become a photographer, and this girl,” She said, pinching my cheeks, “wants to become a poetess.”
“Why, photographers and writers don’t earn?” Now why couldn’t my brother have been quiet? Utter chaos reigned, and my father, who preferred peace, walked out of the house, leaving mother to yell at us.
Presently, the smile on my face only triggered my teacher’s anger. “Who named you Shakuntala? You are a blot on the very name of the famous mathematics wizard,” she screamed, having nothing else to say.
Now we all know light travels faster than sound, but my classmate and unfortunately my next-door neighbour, Bhooma’s parents had this uncanny knack of spreading news faster than anything else in the universe. So, well before I reached home, the news of my dismal performance and their daughter’s noteworthy marks had reached home, as always
Needless to say, there was loud music, and the situation worsened when my mother learned that my parents had been called to school for the coming Saturday.
The teacher gave my parents a nonstop sermon. “You are indeed fortunate because of extremely flexible rules. No child is detained till 7th grade, but the way your daughter is doing her Math, I am afraid she will spend the rest of his life in the 7th grade only.”
Dad asserted in a soft tone once we were out of the school, “Maybe she is not very much inclined towards Mathematics. If I recall correctly, I, too, was not a great Math student. I may have passed on those genes to both my kids. And then people without a math background too have different arenas to prove their mettle and survive. As you see, our son is interested in photography, and Shakuntala has a special affinity towards English.” This only infuriated my mother, and she went on and on about how important learning Mathematics is in life.
Life went on with x, y,, and similar letters playing hide-and-seek with me. They kept hiding, and I had to find them. I never found them and was constantly reprimanded.
After another dismal performance in the second unit test, I walked home with heavy steps, sure that Bhooma, who had scored centum, must have already sent her parents to my house.
On entering my house, apprehensively, I was surprised to see my mother talking happily to Bhooma’s parents and some other neighbours.
“Why is everyone here?” I asked my brother. He winked, which only added to my confusion.
“Baba has gone to get ladoos; there is some good news for you. They have come to congratulate you.” Mom said.
At that moment, my father came in and started distributing sweets. I looked askance at him as he stuffed a huge ladoo into my mouth.
“Congratulations Shakuntala, your essay on ‘Upliftment of farmers,’ and your poetry, ’On Getting Wings,’ have got the first prize on a National Level. Your submission has been selected over entries from various well-known schools from all over the town and city too. Your English teacher stressed the fact that it is no mean achievement.”
I was showered with congratulatory notes.
“On the behest of your teacher, I have decided to enroll you for further guidance in English.” He smiled. “She says you have a bright future in literature. You need to go to the main town every weekend for classes conducted by the literary association. It seems that once you clear some exams conducted by them, you will be eligible for getting sponsorship from the association for your further studies in literature from the city college after your high school.”
Surprisingly, Mom did not refute his statement. On the contrary, she nodded firmly.
Mathematics appeared no longer threatening. Maybe my answer papers would be better next time!